A Worthwhile Companion
by Arlia'Devi
Summary: "I closed my eyes and wished really hard that Pookie would stay with me forever." "That's all?" asks Germany. Italy nods. "That's all." Every Nation has the ability to keep one thing alive with them. Most choose their pets. Deanon from the kink meme. [Germanbros]


**i**

Japan's house, March 1943

When Germany comes to Japan's door, the little marshmallow that apparently is a dog is yapping at his leg. He pats it awkwardly and it licks his hand before Japan rushes down the stairs, apologising profusely. Italy runs forward then, scooping the rolling, fluffy ball in his arms and cuddling it. The dog yips and seems to love the affection. Japan bows and shakes Germany's hand.

"Thank you for coming."

"You're welcome. I hope you are well," Germany bows. "Italy, good to see you."

"Ciao Germany!" laughs Italy, embracing the man and making the dog wiggle between them as it was squashed. "It's so good to see you again. Isn't Japan's place nice?"

"Ja, it is."

The dog scrambles from Italy's arms and runs off deeper into the house. Germany shakes his head at his Axis comrades and shuffles his papers in the folder.

"We should get started."

Outside the dog yips happily as it chases a butterfly through a terrace garden. Japan frowns with a happy little look on his face.

"He's so silly, I'm sorry, friends, I will put him away," Japan apologises.

"Ve, he's digging up the garden!" Italy points out.

Japan sighs and grabs the little dog.

"Pochi knows it's bad, but sometimes he does it because he gets bored and it is not his fault but mine. I can't be mad at him for too long for that."

Italy laughs.

"He's super cute, though Japan."

The man looks at the squiggling little dog. Italy pats him happily and the dog licks at Italy's hand. Germany smiles at the scene, and then remembers the seriousness at hand and clears his throat. His companions look to him. Japan shuts the dog away.

"We really need to talk about this-,"

**ii**

Bonn, January, 1957

It's a cold day in Bonn. The clouds hang heavily in the sky and their drizzle down onto the city. Germany sighs out into the cold air. The people on the street are as happy as they can be, buying their Saturday lunchtime meats and trying to escape from the cold weather.

The corner to Germany's flat comes up and the groceries are becoming a little heavier - he's grown weaker recently, and though the groceries are only for one, himself, he can feel the muscle slowly withering away.

Still, he decides he does not want to go home yet. Back to that small top level bedroom apartment. Back to that sterile white kitchen and the old worn lounge with the bookcase packed to the brim. He spies a florist and thinks perhaps the yellow and red flowers will perk his mood, bring some colour to a monochrome life, and so he falter's in his journey home for a moment.

He pays whatever little change he has left on the bouquet and though it is not for anyone special but himself, he thinks that he should be special enough to do something for himself. They are beautiful and fresh, but they do not smell. That is okay, Germany thinks. They will look wonderful by the window.

There is a woman on the sidewalk with a small cage. Germany approaches it out of curiosity when many children pull on their parent's hand to wait and stop - let me look!

There is a small litter of puppies inside a cage not suited for how many dogs there are - they yap and pull happily against each other's ears, rolling around on the newspaper.

"How old are they?"

"Nine weeks old. Labradors."

"Females or Males?"

"Two Males, three females."

He spies one golden puppy who is not interested in playing with its siblings. Another puppy goes over to it to nibble on its ear, but the puppy does not budge.

"Are they good tempered?"

"Yes. They make great family pets. Their mother is pregnant again and I gotta get rid of these ones."

He points to the aloof puppy.

"And this one?"

"A girl. Listen, I'll take 17 marks for one."

"Seventeen?"

The woman looked to the puppy.

"14 for her."

"Why 14?"

"She doesn't do much. Not interested in playing. But she is a good puppy. She just needs more attention."

"Will you hold her for me? I live around the corner. I have the money. Can you give me thirty minutes?"

The woman nodded.

"Sure, I ain't got nowhere to go."

"Okay," Germany laughs a little nervously. "Please don't sell her."

"Promise."

The woman gets a red ribbon from her handbag and ties it around the puppy's neck loosely, just to be safe. Germany walks home quickly.

**iii**

World Meeting, September, 2010

Italy is playing with his cat lazily as he hosts the meeting, in which his colleagues are arguing idly. Pookie, given to him by Japan, has survived wars and riots, starvation during famine and that time Italy accidentally locked him in the attic for two days because he had slipped in when Italy was donating some of his old paintings. Pookie didn't need much, which was good, because Italy was very forgetful.

Romano says he doesn't like Pookie, but Italy doesn't think this is true. He has seen Romano and the cat cuddled together reading the newspaper. Romano is all talk, really.

Italy sighs and looks to Japan, who looks back at him with a small smile. He is not paying much attention and Italy is being a bad host.

Germany is listening to the lectures very closely. France is talking, about what it is, Italy cannot decide.

Pookie decides that this is too boring and wriggles her way out of Italy's arms when he spies a female cat in the streets below.

"Would you like to see some pictures?" Japan says. "Pochi met Hanatamago a few weeks ago - and well, some things happened."

"No way no way!" Italy laughs as he saw the picture of four adorable little puppies.

"Hanatamago is a very pretty dog," Japan nods. "At first, Pochi had brought shame upon his name and family, but he and Hanatamago seem to be in love."

"They should get married!"

"Excuse-moi?"

Romano rolls his eyes.

"They're talking about holding a wedding for two fleabag mutts."

Sweden narrows his eyes. "Y'r not callin' H'n't'mago a mutt, are ya?"

"Calm down, Su-san," Finland laughs nervously across the room. "I'm sure Mr. South Italy didn't mean it."

America looks around, confused.

Poland is now looking at pictures of the puppies.

"These dogs are like super cute, you guys, you're like a proud Mummy, Japan."

Japan huffs up a little at this, and Poland passes his picture to Lithuania.

"Oh yes, very nice," Lithuania agrees. Russia peeks over his shoulder.

"These would not make very good sled dogs," he replies. "We would have to eat them because they could not perform. Their legs are too little. They would break in the deep snow."

"Dude," America says. "Dogs are so lame. You need a really freaking awesome pet. Dogs are so 1950s."

"I agree," says Hungary. "I much prefer cats."

"Says the woman with a freaking cat holiday!" laughs America. "Fucking crazy cat lady! Do you know what pet is awesome! AN EAGLE? That's right. Seriously I have like no mouse problems at my house. Because the eagle gets them. And you know what; it is bad ass as shit."

"Some of us prefer more rational pets," Germany states. "An eagle is unpractical. What about your other grey companion?"

"Tony?" America laughs. "He's a fucking alien, who knows what he's up to."

"But you keep him with you, don't you?"

"Ah, I guess."

"I mean," Germany clarifies, "you chose to keep him with you?"

America shakes his head.

"No, that's Liberty, my eagle. She lives in the big enclosure at the back of my house. Tony's just my bro."

Germany shakes his head. "You really have a bird as a pet." Then he realises his brother is the same with Gilbird - the one thing he cannot let go of, and so he does not comment further.

"A big ass bird," Poland clarifies. "It is like, a killer. I have heard they kill small dogs."

"I have a turtle! That counts, right?"

"Turtles live forever anyway, bastard Spain!"

Japan finally gets his picture back and puts it away. Germany is wondering how in the world they get off track so quickly. It seems to be one of their best qualities - complete and utter procrastination.

"France, what do you have?"

"I have never been able to commit to one person for long enough," laughs the nation. "And you, Angleterre, content with your fairies and magic for the moment?"

Both Norway and England huff at this, but only England fires back with a huff of swear words.

"I wish I could have a blunt that lasted forever," Netherlands comments absentmindedly.

"I have a dog," Belgium adds her two cents.

"Old mate over here has to get a new sheep every year," cries out Australia, elbowing his neighbour New Zealand. "You wear 'em out otherwise, don't you?"

"I hope your koala claws your face out, you convict bogan."

"ENOUGH!" Germany slams his hands on the table, making the room jump.

"Italy, this is your meeting so lead it - Romano, the same goes for you! We have been here for three hours and we still haven't finished this chapter! Five minutes for talking! Raise your hands! There is to be no rebuttals that cannot be backed up by sound common-sense logic!"

He catches his breath.

The room is silent for a moment.

Italy begins to speak.

"Germany has three dogs," he says. "Ve, how does Germany choose which one he wants to stay with forever?"

And then the attention turns to Germany.

**iv**

Bonn, January, 1957

Germany carries the puppy all the way home. He can only find 12 marks, but the woman gives it to him nevertheless. He wonders maybe she could have known how empty the apartment was, how stale and lifeless it had become. How much he had needed this life force in his suddenly lonely life. He had once had it all. Now his door struggled to open, and he had to plant his hip into it.

The puppy is unsteady on its feet as Germany puts it down on the tiles. He puts the flowers in a vase of water, before offering a bowl to the puppy.

He pats her gently.

"What am I going to call you?" he smiles.

The puppy tips over the water bowl in her haste to get to her feet and explore her new surroundings.

"I hope you don't mind living here," Germany speaks to it honestly. "I don't have much anymore and no one ever visits me. I hope you'll be content just living with me - that you won't be lonely without your siblings."

The puppy scratches her ear. Germany sighs and runs his hand down her back. He thinks to his own sibling in East Berlin. Wonders if there is the same loneliness plaguing him - Germany doubts it. His brother has always been emotionally detached from everything, including him. No, he is soviet now. They are completely different.

"You're an old soul," Germany smiles gently as the puppy eats some of the lunch meats he's purchased from the store. The puppy nibbles the cooked fowl with vigour and licks her lips.

"Elsie?" Germany suggests. The puppy bit at his fingers and he reachs in to feed her some of the skin of the chicken. "That's a nice name, don't you think?"

"What about Gabi? Anyway, I am Ludwig, and I have never had a dog before. So please go easy on me." He scratches her ear gently. Her fur is soft.

Gabi yips gently before running off from her master and into the apartment. Germany gets up from his crouching position, wondering if he should have follow the dog or clean up the water first. He doesn't have a moment to think when suddenly, there is a crashing sound and Gabi emerges, an old army boot dragging behind her.

"Gabi, no!"

**v**

Prussia's house, 1763

Germany doesn't see his brother very often and when he does his brother is often marred in bloody cuts and bruises. Hilda cooks for him, mends his clothes and makes them bigger when he grows (that is every day now, apparently), and tells him of great stories before they go to bed.

The days are longer when brother is not home, Germany thinks. He is a strange older brother, and he has strange friends. One day the tanned man from near the sea came to visit, dressed in flowing red clothes and carrying a large axe. He speaks in a strange accent Germany has never heard before- stranger than the man who lives in France, who wears the dresses and tries to put Germany in them, and pesters the tanned man for someone - Germany doesn't understand it all, but he usually has to make tea for all of them while they talk. They must be his brother's best friends.

Unlike Austria.

He wonders when big brother will get back. He sighs into the pillow. The night is cold and clear. The house in the Prussian countryside is quiet.

The next morning, old Hilda makes him breakfast and smiles while stoking the fire. Her old husband walks to the house, a dog following at his heels and Germany plays with the dog while the two have an afternoon rest. The dog runs around the garden bushes, licks at his face and if Hilda will be mad because he has dirtied his clothes, she hasn't said.

They go in for the days lessons in the afternoon. Germany changes clothes and socks before sitting down to his literature lesson. His penmanship is good, but his grammar isn't. Germany and Hilda's old husband work on this.

It is a quiet afternoon when Germany hears the door open and someone gasp loudly. The man tells him to wait in the chair like a good boy while he investigates.

"Deutschland?"

His name is being called. With wobbling legs, he jumps off the stool in the study and runs out into the lounge.

"Big brother!"

"Hey little man!" Prussia smiles, grabbing the boy for a hug. "Holy hell, Deutschland, look at these muscles - they're almost as big as mine! Have you been lifting the house or something?"

Germany looks at his arms and laughs a little.

"Hilda is angry at me. I don't fit in any more of the clothes you left me!"

"Wow, you are growing so strong - it's from all the sauerkraut, isn't it? That stuff makes strong men!"

His big brother looks the same, if not a little tired. His clothes are dirty too and his shoes are worn bare.

"I got you a present little buddy, because I'm gonna be away for a little while."

Germany rarely ever gets presents.

"He's gonna be all yours, all right, buddy, so you gotta take care of him!"

Germany hopes it is not a bird. His brother has a strange love for birds, which he does not share.

Prussia grabs his rut-sack and pulls a body out of it. It's a light caramel and brown and fluffy. The body moves and stretches out when it's taken out of the bag, before yawning.

"Found him in an Austrian village - but don't hold that against him," Prussia said, handing his little brother the dog. "He's all yours, buddy."

"Wow, really?" Germany gasped. "All mine?"

"Yep. He can't play right now, but he'll grow up and you two can have some awesome adventures together."

The dog licks at Germany's hand gently as he holds him. Prussia ruffles Germany's hair gently before kissing his head. Hilda goes in to the kitchen to begin to cook dinner, Prussia tends to the fire and Germany gives the puppy a tour of their little countryside home.

**vi**

West Berlin, November, 1989

He does not see his brother as often. Not in this new state of limbo, ripped in half, Germany hardly sees anyone. He had began speaking and trading with other countries, France, Italy, Belgium and Austria, but Russia still looms from the east, able to strike at any second. Germany is slowly getting stronger, slowly, but he knows if Russia was to change his mind, then he would fall. And he couldn't say with any conviction if his fellow Europeans would do much to help him.

Germany goes back to his paperwork. A few moments later he hears a whimper through the door. Zeta, an adult German shepherd, noses her way through the ajar door and into Germany's lap, a leash in her mouth.

"It's bad weather to walk," he says, taking the lead from the dog's mouth.

Zeta whimpers once again.

"It's supposed to rain-," he says. He wants to get the paperwork done, but has rain ever stopped him from working out? Never. And Zeta and Astrid have been locked up in the house for days and it must be stifling. Germany sighs and clips the leash into the dog's collar.

"Where is Astrid?" he asks the dog before doing a summoning whistle. The little Cavalier King Charles (she is very dumb, Germany has never owned a dog who was so dim-witted and vows never to get such a breed again), comes into the room and Germany clips her onto the lead as well.

They go out into the streets.

They are grey and barely populated. There is a long strip of struggling businesses with spray-canned slogans of anti-communism. The weeds have overgrown this side of Berlin, and the streets are littered with plastic, posters, rubbish.

He avoids the second street down where there are rioters. He avoids going near the wall at all times. There is one track which he identifies as safe. That is the only one he ever takes - around the old oval, past the bakery, crossing just before the car dealership and back home.

The air smells like burning plastic. Somewhere police sirens are flailing. Deep inside he knows it won't be too long, whatever happens then he won't be able to tell. He knows then, when West Germany and East Germany combine once again, one of them will have to go.

"… My brother…"

**vii**

West Berlin, October, 1990

He wants to call Italy the day it happens, but he doesn't realise it is the day that it happens, so when it does happen, he is caught off guard. He doesn't know what to do. Venezeiano and South Italy can co-exist and he needs to know why, how it is possible. There are no distinct borders in Italy that separates them, not like Germany. There is not a wall - not a physical manifestation of two sides, of a war, of a civil distrust among people who used to be the same.

The air is still the day the wall falls down, and he is there to watch it. People run over the rubble to loved ones, embracing and hugging them. He steps forward, blue eyes searching the crowd.

What if he looks different now? What if he's not the same?

What if he's scared and not searching for him?

What if he doesn't feel the same?

He scans the crowd. A grandmother is being helped to the other side, a child runs toward the East, hugging a taller man. They are clearing debris to drive a Volkswagen on the western streets, but he still doesn't see him - doesn't see that figure amongst the crowd.

"West!"

He hears his name -

"West! West!"

Where is he?

Germany looks to his left, finds another part of the Berlin wall falling to pieces and then he climbs over the bricks, stumbling and falling.

And then Germany's running towards him and there is no one else. No one else except his brother.

He felt his arms wrap around him, hands slap against his back - still shorter than him, still thinner (maybe thinner now), but Germany buried his head into Prussia's neck and squeezed the man.

"Ich habe dich schrecklich vermisst, bruder," he whispers hoarsely. Prussia squeezes him tightly back as the remnants of the long Berlin wall finally fell, across the city the two halves of Germany became whole once again, Prussia's legs give way and he, like the once fearsome wall, falls into his brother's arms.

**viii**

Italy's house, Rome, 1985

Rome is as beautiful a city as Germany remembers it to be. The sun shines bright on the sun-kissed people and they make the most of the morning before they retire in the early afternoon. The Italians drink coffee and have a pastry breakfast in the small cafes that line the streets and backstreets of Rome.

Germany opens the letter once again that contains Italy's new address.

He comes to a big building that looks like a small apartment complex painted in a baby blue. There are flowers growing off some of the balconies and he goes up the few steps to the door and knocks.

There is a rattle inside before there are feet slapping against the floorboards. The heavy front door opens with a great grin.

"Germany!" he smiles. "You're looking good!"

"Same to you, Italy," replies the German. "It is a very nice day."

"Oh yes, I put some sheets out to dry around an hour ago - I bet they're already done!" he laughs. "Come in, come in."

Germany steps into the old Roman building - it's very old so it obviously was not one of the ones bombed. It has had a fresh coat of paint and new floorboards. There is a staircase spiralling up to the upper levels.

"You live here with your brother?"

Italy shrugs his shoulders.

"Sometimes. Romano is usually with Spain though, he spends most of the time there since the end of the war," Italy says. "So usually I am here alone. Do you want a cup of coffee?"

"Ja, danke - espresso."

"Sure."

Italy goes into the kitchen which is at the back of the first floor and it looks out to the small terrace where white sheets are drying in the sun. Germany relaxes against the table. It's good to feel this way; he hasn't felt so relaxed for quite a long time.

Italy gives him the coffee and Germany sips it gently. The sun warms him. The coffee slips down his throat and settles in his stomach. Italy hums next to him. A small ringing bell sounds and a little brown cat runs out from wherever it has been, probably sleeping, and begins to find something to eat.

Germany looks at the cat. It drinks from a little milk Italy pours into a bowl. He scratches his head gently.

"Poookieeee," he sighs.

"You've named all the cats the same name?"

Italy looks at Germany for a moment.

"No, you silly! This is the same cat!"

"From World War Two?"

"Yes!"

Italy laughs.

"How old is it now? Cats only live for twenty years?"

"Si, Pookie is 60 now." Italy says. "I keep him with me. He doesn't seem to mind. Sometimes he runs away but he always comes back. I guess that is love."

"You can keep something with you?" Germany asks.

"Si, you've never thought about it for your dogs?"

Germany shakes his head. "No. I never knew how. How did you choose the cat?"

Italy shrugs a little. "I don't really know. I didn't think I could live without Pookie - I mean I have my brother but Pookie is different. I just wished really hard."

"That's all?"

Italy hums, "That's all, I guess. I closed my eyes and wished really hard that Pookie would stay with me forever."

"That's all?"

Italy nods. "That's all."

**ix**

West Berlin, October, 1990

Prussia's breath laboured as he lay on the bed. Germany shut the window, trying to silence the celebrations outside. He locked the door and shut the blinds, blocking out the sunlight before moving to light a candle by the bedside. Prussia smiles gently.

"It's good to see you again," he says into the stale air. "You've gotten taller. Older."

Germany smiles gently and offers his brother some water.

"You shouldn't be talking."

Prussia sips the water but he doesn't taste it and he knows he's dying.

"Your first war," Prussia huffs.

"I don't want to talk about it. It was a mistake," Germany says. "I was young and foolish. I thought the world owed me."

Prussia laughs gently.

"Maybe so, but we all are young and foolish," Prussia replies.

Germany takes up his hand and squeezes it.

"This is my fault."

Prussia shakes his head.

"I have had to go for centuries now…," he says softly. "It's time, I guess. You can take it from here?"

"I can't!" Germany says. "Brother, no!"

Prussia sighs gently and he shifts in his bed.

"The old man disappeared one day," says Prussia. "Never came back. Left me with you." His breath catches in his throat. "H-hope I didn't. Fuck you up. Too much."

"Is this what you're reduced to?" Germany cries. "All your work and your empire, and this is your end? In this shitty apartment?"

"It…," Prussia gasps. "It is pretty shitty… I… I didn't want to tell you."

"I would do anything to keep you here, please brother, don't go, please," Germany begs. "Don't leave me here."

"You'll be okay, West," Prussia says. "I don't want to leave you either, but one of us has to go. I'm old. I used to ache. Tell Austria and Hungary I'm sorry for being such an arsehole to them."

"No!" Germany says, shaking Prussia. "No, don't go to sleep! No!"

"I'm really tired, West," Prussia smiles softly. "I'm sorry. I always loved you. I'm so proud."

And then his eyes close gently and his breathing stabilises. A peaceful expression falls on his face, and his eyes move behind his eyelids. Germany brings his hands to his cheek, closes his eyes and wishes on anything - on a miracle, on the same star that Italy wished on in World War Two. Prussia wears the crucifix around his neck and Germany wonders if it really works, if there is anything out there or if everything is for nothing.

Germany shakes.

"Please, please, please," he begs gently.

And he wonders, wonders if he tries hard enough, if anything can help, if he can keep him here forever, just by his side. He was his brother, his closest family - the weird, often annoying Prussian, the noisy, war-orientated, obnoxious albino, but his always caring, spending-as-much-time-as-he-possibly-could older brother, the one who gave him the last serving of stew, who gave him the clothes off his back and the most comfortable blankets and always made sure he was clothed before himself.

Germany wishes against Prussia's cold skin.

"Please, please, please, please," he whispers.

This is all he wants. All he has ever wanted - Italy said he could always keep his brother, but Pookie was special. Germany has always had new dogs, always wanted a new companion, enjoyed watching them grow from being a puppy to adulthood. He could not have a new brother, he could not replace Gilbert.

He could make him stay forever. Make him stay for good.

Against his cheek, his fingers are cold. Prussia's breathing is low.

Suddenly, his arm goes limp.

The candle light flickers.

**x**

Barcelona, November, 1990

Spain is cleaning up after lunch when the doorbell rings. It's midday and Romano has gone back to Italy.

Nadia, the housekeeper, goes to answer the door and Spain notices the woman speak in Spanish -

"I do not understand-,"

Humans rarely visit his house so he dries his hand to go and greet the visitor.

"Francis?" he smiles at the man and waves Maria away. "Hello, good friend, what brings you here?"

"You have heard of the unification of Germany, oui?" asks the French man.

"Of course," says Spain.

"And the fate of our friend Gilbert?"

Spain's expression grows dark. His hands begin to shake a little and France moves forward to take them.

"It was always going to be one or the other," he says gently.

"You're…," Spain shakes his head. "You're saying he's gone? What did Russia say?"

"You know we can't get much out of him," France said. "Come and sit, old friend, I am lamenting too."

Spain sits down on his couch and France pats his shoulder.

"I just don't understand-,"

"We are all very old," France replies. "All three of us. We almost died, all of us, didn't we? In the last few centuries."

Spain shakes in his seat.

"It's not fair!"

"Come now, Antoine, he had a good life, what with his chasing around Austria, many great conquests," France replies. "A peaceful death, I guess, is all we could ask for - the reconsolidation of a country, it wouldn't hurt."

Spain sighs. France goes to get them both a glass of water. He sees keys to an Alfa Romeo on the servery - Spain has a brandless old car, it might be a Peugeot, maybe once, but he could not tell.

"Romano's been here?"

"Si. Just left."

"He didn't take his car?"

"Spare keys."

"Ah."

"How do you think the Italian's would survive?" Spain asks. "If one of them was to become the one governance…"

"Maybe they won't let that happen - Germany was different though."

Spain nods and agrees.

"I will miss him." France nods. "I miss everyone who goes."

Spain looks to France then, wonders how much he might know, but the blonde Frenchman doesn't elaborate and only hands Spain a glass of water.

**xi**

Berlin, November, 1990

Zeta and Astird sniff around the spare bedroom door - the one that has been closed for a month and what is in there, they wonder? Maybe something special, something master hides.

Germany is in the study on the telephone. There is a pile of paperwork in front of him and these days he is busier than ever - so many new people to account for, so many things to organise and set in place. They have to reassess passports, and hospitals and governments and it gives him a headache at the end of the night when he goes to bed.

He has not been eating. There has been no time.

Italy called three weeks ago when he had heard. He has not called him back.

He has received some flowers. They are next to his bedside table - they're white, and from France. Spain rang and asked if Germany needed anything - he had not needed anything, not food or meals or an extra hand. He does not need any of that.

Germany finishes his paperwork late in the afternoon before going into the fridge and pulling out the left overs of his pork stew from yesterday. He does not feel like cooking - he does not really feel like eating, but he does.

He has been up there for a month, doing nothing, not dying, but not living - just sleeping. Just resting, with his eyes closed peacefully and his chest rising up and down. Thus why he doesn't understand.

He puts the dish in the oven. He takes a bottle of beer out from the fridge and puts in a new one in its place.

The dogs whimper upstairs and he should take them for a walk, but it's raining inside and he can't be bothered.

The dish is ready after half an hour. He takes it, turns on the television and eats.

The phone rings. He ignores it.

He has never felt this empty.

Astrid comes down and Germany gives her the pork bone from the casserole and a smaller one to Zeta.

There is suddenly a noise upstairs. There is a small riot outside still, the remnants of a disgruntled youth burning for change.

The floorboards creak. There is a small grown.

Germany frowns and goes upstairs. The dogs follow and he has to keep them away with his foot as he enters the bedroom. The room is dark and the air is stale. There is heavy breathing, a shuffle of some sheets and he fumbles to light the candle on the bedside.

"Gilbert…," Germany breathes.

There is a frown on his face.

Slowly, his eyes flutter open. His red eyes, rimmed crimson and blurry, can't focus on anything.

"How… how long have I been… asleep?" he asks.

"Five weeks."

"I… was… really fucking tired."

Germany smiles gently. He squeezes Prussia's hand. The man smiles back gently.

"Thanks, West."

**xii**

Berlin, August, 2009,

Italy holds Germany's hand gently. In the garden is a fresh layer of soil. Germany looks at it with tears in his eyes and a quivering jaw.

"It's okay, Germany," says Italy. "He went peacefully."

Germany nods. "That is true."

Italy smooths his hand over Germany's shoulder. "It's okay," he soothes. "Please don't cry, Germany."

"I'm sorry, Italy, it is always sad."

Italy wants to ask why he always puts himself through this, why he makes himself feel so miserable even for such a short time in his life.

"Let's go back inside, Italy, I think it might rain."

"Okay," says the Italian.

Inside, Italy goes and boils the kettle to make some instant coffee. The door opens just as Italy is finishing the coffee. He hears some low German being spoken so Prussia must be home. He can't tell what they're talking about mainly because his German is poor and they are more mumbling than talking - but at the end, he catches the last part and it's

"-don't be sorry, brother."

**xiii**

Paris, May, 2013,

They end the Friday night stumbling back to France's house after trying to pick up the ever so picky French women (except for Spain, who has been drunk dialing a certain Italian man since nine-thirty and has yet to stop).

And they fall into the one bed, France's bed, half naked and laughing and so very, very drunk and not for the first time in the last few years, with his friends and his family and the internet to pass time, Prussia wonders if maybe, just maybe, these are the best years of his life.

And that little boy, the one with his dirt on his nose and blonde hair in his eyes, the one who berates him and he makes fun of, when they fight and make-up, like brothers do, when they slam the doors and steal each other's clothes -

Well, he has to owe everything to him.

France pulls the covers over them and turns on the television. Spain is laughing and hugging Prussia's waist.

"Desperate Housewives or what?" he asks.

"What? Antoine, you have such terrible taste," France laughs.

Prussia looks at France and smiles.

"Just put it in. He won't fall asleep without it."

"That is true…," admits France.

And so, the DVD plays.

These are the best times of his life.

Unbound.

Unrestricted.

Free.

The end.

* * *

><p>The prompt was: every Nation has the ability to keep one thing alive with them. Most Nations choose their pets, and most think that Germany does the same with his dogs. But Germany doesn't mind getting new dogs every few years or so and he does enjoy training them. Germany keeps Gilbert alive.<br>It's from Part 26 of the APH kink meme. If you're not apart of that group, do head over - there are some wonderful creatives on that place and the support in the fandom is great.

I wrote this all in one sitting I think, and didn't save it to my laptop, so it was a little harder to find this after like 7 months, but I managed to find it and share it with you all.

Thanks for reading! Please post a review before you go. I love reading them and they only take 30 seconds to post.

Best,

Arlia'Devi!


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